The Intriguing Tale of Volante Volpe
by Ninja Duck Elmo
Summary: A nine year old genius Detective. A corrupt police Officer. And the Most High Society of 42.All after one criminal who's feats are unmatched in the whole of History. But what do each of them want from her?  Pleas Read and Review-all comments are welcome :


Please** Read and Review** any comments are welcome :D

**Copyright EGM**

**Ch1. The Reckoning of The Flying Fox (Volante Volpe)**

**Da da dum. Da da dum.**

The sound of her shallow breathing, echoed through the darkness of the stark stone alleyway that surrounded her.

Zip. Bam. Bam, bam,bam.

Bullets ricocheted over her head, clipping her fine mahogany hair. They were coming closer, inching forward every second, while she remained here. She had to run.

Heave. Heave. Heave.

Her breathing started to get heavier, as she realized something,which to a normal person wouldn't be all that important or potentially life threatening. All was silent.

Taking her chance, she shinned up the nearby wall of a building , hoping if putting space between her and them wasn't enough, maybe height was. Clumsily she rolled onto the flat roof of the building , stepping into the moonlight for the first time, the shadowy light of the half moon reflecting on her polished hair. One of her legs had caught on the stony edge of the roof, causing a gash into her shiny tight leather jeans, worn with a battered but classy tight leather jacket, which would have really looked better on a hardened biker but when you're on the run, beggars couldn't be choosers.

Knowing no more time could be wasted ,she stood up, aware they were coming after her, and that the silence would end as soon as she was seen – the FBI did not wait. Dusting herself down , her dark violet eyes caught the distinctive glint of a rear mirror of a car. Not any sort of car. An NYPD car.

Panic bubbled quietly in the middle of her chest, threatening to burst open like an old blister, as she turned round and sprinted across the roof, choosing to jump at the very last second over the gap separating the alleyways. She landed with a crash, her whole ribcage rattling with the impact of the granite on her skin. She lay sprawled on the roof, blood trickling down from her ear and nose, distant sounds of police cars being mobilized and standard issue soles hitting the pavement, advancing like some undead skeleton army, with only one objective.

She crawled on her stomach to the edge of the roof , trying to lower her body onto the fire escape stairs , but her fingers slipped on the granite roof, and she landed with a resounding crash, halfway down the stairs. Pain shot through her body , trying to compete with the adrenaline coursing alongside it. Painfully she leant back on the railings, her body half dead, her vision blurry, and her hearing replaced with a single piercing tone. Her hand fumbled in her jacket pocket, looking for something to defend herself with. She needed to run, yet there was so much pain...

Blamm.

A singe shot ran through her, an tiny explosion of pain which quickly built to full on agony. She glanced down to her hand ,and saw the pistol shaking in it ,a fine tendril of smoke leaking out of its head. Shakily she looked to her leg ,and suddenly all the other pain was gone. All she felt was the shock emanating from the twisted bloodstained hole in the middle of her calf. Her mouth opened as if to scream, terror twisting her face ,until she realized this was what she needed to focus. She needed to focus on this one pain and just run.

Gathering herself together , she half tumbled ,half crawled down the stairs, limping round the alleyway corner, and slumping down by it. She pressed her face against the cold wall, her high cheekbones accentuated, mascara running down her face like black tears. Blood smeared on the wall as she pushed her face into the wall,which though painted in blood, still sparkled and resembled that of the tortured ice queen. She grasped the gun in her hand and pressed it on the wall, trying to lever herself up. Her initial adrenaline was now being painfully taken over by her other wounds, her vision slowly closing, blurring...

**_Burning. A mother grasps her young baby and daughter and pushes them, begging them to go, to run for their lives. The smell of smoke overpowers everything. Burning. The darkness encloses them as the daughter takes the small baby and goes to run. She looks behind her, to see a man, the heat of madness and anger reflected on his face as he strikes their mother. Everything is burning._**

The familiar rumble of a motorcycle woke her up, an odd mix of fear, and déjà vu pressing against her chest after the strange vision. She shook it out of her head and looked round to try and find the source of noise she'd heard earlier ,and found it. A running motor bike on its stand stood in front of her. An idea ran through her head. This could be the chance she had been waiting for.

Slowly she inched towards the black machine, doubt and worry flashing through her as she came upon the jet black machine. The familiar smell of petrol wafted through her nose, intoxicating her and erasing any doubts she'd held. Her hand reached to the seat , and through sheer will power eased herself up , screaming silently in pain as she did. Grasping the handle bars she placed herself on the seat, new superficial wounds being cut open as she scrambled with the bike. With difficulty she managed to raise her foot to start the engine, crying quietly in pain . Finally she managed to steer the bike out of the alley, her shot leg hanging uselessly at the side.

" Target 223 spotted, immediate back up requested over" a fuzzy voice shouted in the back ground.

"Backup granted , follow the target until backup arrives- you are authorised to use deadly force over" a quiet voice seemed to whisper through a distant walkie talkie.

It took her less than ten seconds to realize what they were talking about – Target 223, her assigned criminal 'code' name authorised by the CIA and FBI. She rammed her good foot down onto the pedal ,and veered out on the highway, hoping they would lose her in the night traffic. Yet it took less than five seconds for NYPD sirens to start, and even less for unmarked FBI cars to reveal themselves. She could see dark figures emerge out of buildings equipped in Special Ops uniforms, and even more jumping out of helicopters in front of her. So that was their back up.

At the sound of the first bullet being fired, life seemed to stop, everyone moving in slow motion- police cars stopping, and their overweight officers who couldn't even catch a petty robber raising their guns, black Bentleys swerving to stop her motorbike with black suited men getting out and raising their guns regally towards her.

She took out her gun with her spare hand, shooting down the closest to her bike, their lines faltering in the surprise attack. She took advantage of this, and swerved round their little circle of cars, heading for who knows where. Her vision was going again: the motorbike swerving under her unsteady control. She looked down at the gears- a jumble of numbers ,way too many for a motorbike. Her fingers scrambled the dials, hoping for the best. A squadron of Special Ops soldiers now headed towards her, their machine guns spewing bullets at her.

Swerving, she headed away from the blurry needle of the Empire State Building. She revved the engines to full speed, adrenaline once again taking top spot, as she swerved onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

Nearly halfway across, she began tilting on her bike once more, her blurry vision turning into double vision. She swerved off the road, six motorbikes following her along on each side, with five NYPD cars coming from the other end. Her bike continued to swerve , speed climbing up as she swerved even wider, reaching the hard shoulder at the lowest point of the bridge, petrol fumes wafting up from where the bike had been hit by bullets. The bike was now swerving more and more to the edge when-

CRASH.

The front wheel of the bike collided with the metal railing so hard the bikes back end flipped over , tossing her, still clutching the bike, over the railings into the vast whirlpool which was theEast River.

As she fell, she realized she was still holding the bike seat, when she noticed sparks were flying out of the bike, growing more violently as she fell to a certain death. All other pain vanished, and she barely noticed as the sharp slap of sea water, whipped her back as she drifted through her last moments. She closed her eyes as she slowly drifted down to die.

"Target down. Over." A nearby policeman told his walkie talkie grimly.

A flashy black town car pulled up on the opposite side of the sidewalk, and out stepped a man dressed in a light brown mackintosh with the collar noticeably up, and a black fedora. He stepped back from the commotion that was gathering, and watched the police officers as they dealt with the public ,and somehow wormed his way through the crowd, unseen. He tipped his hat a little more forward ,so not a speck of light would reach it. Gently pushing aside an FBI officer he reached the other side of the sidewalk- where the woman had fallen. He stood there for a second, watching, waiting almost- until an unheard explosion ripped through the East River ;a small plume of ash and sparks lighting the night sky. A small hail of black ash covered the man ,as he exited the scene, stopping only once to whisper something as he went:

"It seems the game has begun...Volante Volpe"

**Copyright EGM**


End file.
